Paradise goes on as PG&E gets official blame for fire:...

1of5Susan Hartman (second from right), assistant planner at the Town Hall in Paradise helps Craig Green (right) with permitting to re-build a church and a home which was destroyed in the Camp Fire in Paradise, California, on Wednesday, May 15, 2019.Photo: Gabrielle Lurie / The Chronicle

3of5Small stars with the messages “Hope” and “Joy” lie on the ground outside the police station in Paradise.Photo: Gabrielle Lurie / The Chronicle

4of5At Paradise Town Hall, Susan Hartman (right) helps Craig Green with permitting to rebuild a church and a home.Photo: Gabrielle Lurie / The Chronicle

5of5Craig Green shows the plans for rebuilding a church and a home that were destroyed in the Camp Fire in Paradise.Photo: Gabrielle Lurie / The Chronicle

PARADISE (Butte County) — Everyone in town already knew.

They had read reports from Pacific Gas & Electric Co. admitting it was likely responsible for the Camp Fire. They had cried with their neighbors and listened to newscasts about the blaze. They had kept their televisions on overnight when it happened, the drone of news making them feel more in control, even when events had decimated their hometown.

They already knew. So in Paradise, life had to limp on.

At Paradise Town Hall, a squat green building off the main street of Skyway, it was a normal Wednesday — or as normal as Wednesdays get since the deadliest, most destructive wildfire in modern state history. Residents waited at the Development Services office to ask questions or file paperwork. They wanted to install a trailer on their burned-out lot, or apply for a permit to rebuild, or just talk with someone who understood their experience.

“Didn’t we already know that?” one town employee asked when the news came that PG&E equipment had sparked the Camp Fire. “What’s different now?”

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An AT&T technician moved from office to office checking phones, which crackled and popped with static. He couldn’t figure out why. The floor creaked as he walked past still-contaminated drinking fountains taped with red hazard signs, past the line of people snaking by the Development Services office.

Outside, it poured.

An American flag, hanging at half-staff in front of Town Hall, wilted. Water pooled in the parking lot and glazed the new leaves sprouting on oak trees. It sprayed from passing semi-trucks carrying entire lives reduced to ash and rubble in the landfill.

“The small amount of light, with PG&E being found at fault, is that it will open up a financial door for people to possibly get some money to try to get them back to a place close to where they were,” said Town Council member Michael Zuccolillo. “It’s not going to change that people died. It’s not going to change the emotional strain and trauma people went through. It may help them in restarting their lives. That’s the only silver lining.”

Paradise was lost to flames — 18,804 structures destroyed, 85 dead — last Nov. 8. It’s been lost again and again since, more of the town disappearing each passing week.

The Adventist Feather River Hospital laid off its 1,331 employees. The principal of Paradise High School announced his resignation. He and his seven children were relocating to Hughson in Stanislaus County. The keeper of Paradise Lake, on the job for 36 years, was moving to Oregon. The Paradise fire chief retired.

Most people here have vanished, in fact — relocated to bigger towns like Chico or Oroville. In the past six months, these and other nearby cities have swelled with fire refugees. Prescriptions filled at the Chico Walgreens have doubled. So has the number of licenses issued by the Chico Department of Motor Vehicles.

Some people moved farther away, to places like Hawaii and Florida, where no one knew their trauma. Some have left permanently; others plan to rebuild.

Those still here, living in travel trailers and unburned homes in leveled neighborhoods, weren’t surprised, or much moved, by Wednesday’s news. The town they’d known, the lives they’d had, were gone, in more ways than they could even articulate. That PG&E was the official cause of their suffering didn’t change much.

“The whole event is tragic and unfortunate,” said Paradise Police Chief Eric Reinbold. “There’s a lot of firsts in the history of the state that this incident has created — deadliest and largest, most expansive search-and-rescue recovery operation. The magnitude of the incident is still hard for a lot of people to process and accept.”

Linda Stratton, whose grandfather had opened the Stratton Market, also lost in the fire, said the news came as a relief. “It might help us rebuild our town and our lives and try to get things back to pre-fire. Everyone I know is affected. It affects every aspect of your life — doctor, school, work, veterinarian. Everything you can think of in your life is changed.”

Susan Doyle was angry. “We’ve all known it was PG&E from the beginning. It’s just official now. It doesn’t make me feel better at all,” she said.

“I’m pissed off. I worked my whole life for my home. It’s not just the stuff in it. It’s my community. I’m bitter about this whole fire. It took my life. How can I come back to this?”

Paradise still doesn’t have clean water; the pipes were contaminated with benzene. It could take up to two years to repair. Entire blocks remain filled with rusted cars, mangled homes, melted children’s play sets.

But late Wednesday afternoon, the Northern California Ballet practiced for the opening weekend of “SleepingBeauty.” Police had received four 911 calls and given out two citations. Roofers patched the VFW Hall, where plans are for bingo nights to start up every Wednesday soon.

On Skyway, cars splashed past billboards: “#ParadiseStrong!” “Sue PG&E!” and “Need Help with Insurance?” Dinnertime beckoned. And for a moment, sunshine pierced the clouds.

Lizzie Johnson is a recovering political reporter who now covers general assignment stories, frequently writing about environmental issues and major breaking news across the state. She led The Chronicle’s coverage of the Wine Country Wildfires — the most destructive blazes in state history. Johnson joined The Chronicle in 2015 to cover City Hall and moved to the metro desk in 2017. Before joining the newsroom, Johnson worked at the Chicago Tribune, the Dallas Morning News, the Omaha World-Herald and El Sol de San Telmo, a daily in Buenos Aires. A Nebraska native, she is an alumna of the University of Missouri-Columbia. She is an eternal optimist and aspiring golden-doodle owner.